In Excelsis Deo
by Holly4
Summary: Post Chosen. Breaks from AtS S5 Canon. Upon answering a desperate call a late autumn night, Wesley invokes the help of Fred in nursing a broken warrior back to health. A warrior that does not want to live but to see the face of a woman that has moved an
1. Silent Night

**In Excelsis Deo**

Author: Holly

Rating: R

Timeline: Post _Chosen _but discarding the AtS Season 5 plotline

Summary: Upon answering a desperate call a late autumn night, Wesley invokes the help of Fred in nursing a broken warrior back to health. A warrior that does not want to live but to see the face of a woman that has moved an ocean away.

Distribution: Mandi, Yani, Luba, take it! Everyone else, just let me know. (Nothing personal—just know these gals. wink)

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Silent Night**

Truthfully, Wesley hadn't known what to expect when he received the call, but this scenario hadn't even presented an argument. It was an assignment that was supposed to mean nothing beyond a reason to get out of the office. Something Angel sent him on to allot a breath of fresh air. He knew on some level that he should resent the notion, but couldn't find it within him to complain. It was a leave. A task outside the place in which they had sealed their damnation, and that was all that really mattered.

One would never have thought the quarters of Wolfram and Hart to be too small. And true, while the head of the Los Angeles branch of Hell Incorporated did little to mention their inter-office conflict, no one truly bothered to hide their discomfort. There was something about the vampire that did not sit well with anyone anymore.

There was something about themselves.

In the few months since they had assumed control of the law firm fated to destroy them all, the rift between the former team at Angel Investigations had drawn to almost irreparable measures. Wesley had consigned himself to bitter acquiescence, never mentioning but no longer pretending. The entire affair reminded him acrimoniously of the tale of the man that was granted a choice between Heaven and Hell and ended up selecting torment because they had the better sales pitch. The firm was gutting him slowly. Dragging out his insides just to poke fun of the stuff he was made of. A slow form of poison selected at his hand alone.

It wasn't one thing. It was a thousand things. He had lost count of the number of times he had arranged a meeting with Angel to discuss what had become of them only to cancel an hour prior for the hope that tomorrow would be better. And the day after that, and the day after that. He forgot when talking with his former ally required a board room and two other paid lawyers that refused to leave even at the sharpest insistence.

He didn't blame Angel. He couldn't. They were living in a veiled world and they all knew it. And yet he, like the rest, did nothing to break free. A force manifest within himself—a burrow that refused to leave until he was a shell of former goodwill. He tried; he really tried. Mornings bore promises spoken aloud to not get up, to not get in the shower and go kill himself a bit more today. It never worked. The hold was too great. He came to his nine to five job every day, did work for the powers of darkness through hands that were no longer his, and left the office knowing the world was a little bit worse because of him.

It wasn't one thing; it was Wolfram and Hart. And it was destroying him.

The irony of it all was that he had known this. Going in, he knew that signing a deal with the devil could never end well.

And here he was on a detour from an ordinary day. A thankless gift from the Powers That Be. A glance at the town he had abandoned to devastate. Really, the call was beneath the concern of Wolfram and Hart. A disturbance at a local pub with a crazy man threatening to cut himself unless someone reassured his existence.

Every town had their crazies. It was difficult to remember at times that Los Angeles was not every town. Even still, Wesley was more than grateful for the lost soul. Getting away always helped in thinning the veil. In allowing him to see through what was being concealed.

He had not, however, expected this.

The scene itself was almost tragic. A picture of a wounded man standing in the midst of a scoured bar. He held a blade to his skin, slicing thin rivers of red with each scream that erupted from a tormented throat. His face was an ocean of tears, his eyes blaring in outrage. He was naked from the waist up, barefoot; the slacks he wore a picture of filth—purloined undoubtedly from one of the homeless in the back allies.

It wasn't the picture that disturbed Wesley. He had seen too many horrible things to be bothered by shades of madmen. No, it was the hoarse, strangled cries erupting from his throat. Screams to the frightened patrons and the pub owner that was ducked behind the bar, eyes wide with terror.

"'S that what this is, then?" the man screamed, voice thickly accented and choked with tears. "This is blood. Real blood. Am I real? Am I _real?" _A sharp titter rumbled through his throat, reminding Wesley dimly the feel of copper against the tongue. How a sound could remind him of a taste, he did not know. But there was something about this man. Something that forewarned he had stepped way over his head. This was more than anyone had bargained for.

"The dead don' bleed, you know," the man said as he sliced another cut into his palm without flinching. "Some dead do, but my kinda dead don't. I'm bloody well finished here. Bloody beyond dust. No more blood for me." He turned his face upward. "Wasn't I finished?! Wasn't I? Am I real? Am I—"

Wesley started forward just as the knife clamored to the ground and the man released an agonized howl, clutching at his chest as he battled for balance. A look from the bartender convinced him to stop again. He had not yet been seen.

When he stood again, the man's chest was smeared with blood from where he had grasped at himself.

"No bloody heartbeat!" he screamed, reaching for the fallen blade. "Not s'posed to have one of those. Not s'posed to—"

The rest was instinct. Over and done with before he even registered moving a muscle. Wesley caught the glimmer of the blade as it rose slowly over the stranger's chest, leaving little in the mind's eye of what he was planning to do. But this was different. This was so different. This was a new game altogether. Something unforeseen, and his pulse raced at the thrill of it.

He had the man tackled the next instant, kicking the knife away and fortifying his strength against an incursion of curses, cries, and protests. There was no doubt now, if there had ever been. No doubt whatsoever. He had never met the man he was wrestling; only knew him by reputation. By photos in old books and stories told in the days of Angel's nostalgia. He had heard of him more than ever just a few months ago; when the world was caught at a standstill. When it was reported that Sunnydale had simply vanished overnight.

Oh yes. He had heard his share about Spike then. About the vampire he had been. Personalized stories and bitter reflections over the ending. Spike's fate sealed them all. It was the reason any of them were here. He was a vampire with a soul that had saved the world. A vampire with a soul. A vampire that had won his soul without the need of a gypsy curse. Without the need of anything besides the love of a woman.

That was when things began to fall through the cracks for Wesley. Angel's disillusionment with his own status. His own being and purpose. And the former Watcher, not to be outdone, had spent a good week or so researching the Shanshu prophecy all over again. Wondering, waiting. There was a part of him that knew his friend was out of the running, now. A vampire that sought a soul was rumored to not need one in the first place. It was a paradox in demontalk, because such had never occurred. Such was unheard of.

He had thought when it was evident that Spike's demise was final that Angel might remember who he was and what he was working for. What his mission was; what it had been from the beginning. But no. They were as they ever were. Working for a cause that no longer made sense. Separated by confusion, divided by avarice. Held by both.

Wesley didn't know how he gained the upper hand, though wagered being aware of one's settings was a good place to start. He had the man pinned to the ground after just a few minutes of struggle, his chestnut gaze swallowed by an endless sea of angered pain. There was something feral within those eyes. Something more primal, more archaic than anything he had ever witnessed.

"Spike!" he shouted, wrapping his hands around the blonde's besieged wrists. "Spike. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay." The man stopped struggling at that, blinking once at the sound of his name. The former Watcher released the breath he didn't realize he had been holding and offered a forced, rugged smile. "It's okay. You've been gone for a few months now. My name is Wesley. I'm a…friend."

There was a lost few seconds as the words struggled to make sense. Then, as insolent as a three year old, Spike raised his hands for inspection, presenting himself expectantly. "'m bleedin'," he said.

"Yes," Wesley agreed. "You cut yourself. Just a few minutes ago."

"I cut myself."

"You shouldn't do that." He drew in a breath and glanced apologetically around the bar at the half-stunned crowd that had gathered. He wanted to tell them to move back and allow them room, but was uncertain of how the wounded former vampire would take to words not spoken to him. "Spike, do you remember Sunnydale?"

Another distant few minutes. Had he not been breathing harshly and blinking with regularity, Wesley would concern himself with the possibility of catatonia.

Then a spark. Something. A name.

"Buffy," he gasped; sitting up with such force that it knocked the other man off balance. "Buffy. Where's Buffy? What happened to Buffy?"

Wesley fought to his feet. "Spike, Buffy—"

"Where is she? What did you do to her?" His eyes flared and his face scrunched as though trying to burst forward into the demonic guise he had known for nearly a century and a half. A frustrated sob rumbled through his throat when nothing happened, and he collapsed against the nearest barstool in defeat. "Buffy. I need Buffy. Where is she?"

Wesley drew in a deep breath and raised his hand slowly, edging forward with more caution than he had ever exhibited. "Spike," he said again, trying to rekindle the bond formed with the mention of a familiar name. "Spike, listen to me. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I used to be Buffy's Watcher. I now work in Los Angeles with…" He frowned, considering. Given their history, hearing Angel's name likely wouldn't do him any good. Though the presence of a grandsire might be comforting…he genuinely didn't know what to do. He was thoroughly lost; everything left to instinct. "I work with friends," he concluded. "Buffy is in Italy. She's been there since—"

Spike held up a hand painted in red. "Blood," he said.

"Yes, that's blood."

"Used to drink. Doesn't taste like blood."

A low, disgusted murmur ran through their audience.

"It won't anymore," Wesley replied, ignoring the others as best he could. "Spike, you…you're human."

He blinked dumbly at that, paused, then placed the hand over his heart again. "Hurts."

"It's beating for the first time in over a hundred years."

"Vampires don't _have _heartbeats."

Wesley licked his lips. "You're not a vampire anymore." He caught sight of the bartender rising behind the blonde, the fear having been long doused. A small revolver was in his left hand. The former Watcher's eyes bulged and his body nearly rocked with panic. He had to get Spike out and fast. "Spike," he said, stepping forward. "Spike, I need you to come with me."

"Wesley."

"Yes, my name is Wesley. I need you to come with me."

"Need to find Buffy."

He nodded again. "I will take you to Buffy, I promise."

The bartender's arm was rising.

Spike cocked his head and looked at him as though he saw for the first time. Saw the man standing just a few feet away. His eyes were alight. His breathing was labored. And there was something there that shouldn't be there. A reason. An understanding. One of those things that Wesley no longer believed in.

"You'll take me to Buffy."

"Yes. I will take you to Buffy." He tried to wave down the pub-owner, but he didn't think the man received the message. And if he did, he didn't care. "We must leave now."

Spike nodded and stepped forward. "Yeh. Must leave. Gotta get to Buffy."

"We're going now," Wesley said. He shrugged his coat off his shoulders and placed it on the blonde's. "Come on. I have to take you home."

There was pause and a second of struggle. Spike's arm went rigid beneath his. "No!" he snarled. "Buffy."

"I have to take you home first," he replied calmly. "I have to help you."

The struggles became more intense. So did the snarls. "No. No! I want to—"

"Let me help you, Spike. Let me help you, and I will take you to Buffy. You must let me help you first." He pressed a worried hand to the former vampire's forehead, purposefully familiarizing him with personal contact. "You're not well. Let me help you."

It was a miracle that they got out of the pub without inspiring a round of shots and the death of the recently un-undead vampire. Wesley guided Spike to his car in a hurry that was almost foreign, settled him in the passenger seat, then dug his phone out of his front pocket.

If he were going to do this, he would need help. And lots of it.

And after a few endless rings, help decided to answer.

"Hello?"

"Fred. Fred, it's Wesley." He tossed a careful glance to the window. Spike was seated calmly, staring ahead at the bleak nothingness before him. "I need a favor."

T**o be continued in Part Two: _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_…**


	2. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

**God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen**

He awoke. Warm. Comforted. Swimming in a sea of blankets—pillows serving as life rafts. His stomach growled, his eyes were blurry, and he had no idea where he was. But it didn't matter. Somehow, it didn't matter. It was the first feel of genuine security in almost the entire course of his lifeline. Warmth. Comfort. Safety. The nonexistence he had known for months at an abrupt end. Traded for this. Traded for warmth above nothing.

He had been cold for far too long.

It took a few minutes, but Spike's weary muscles finally listened to what he was telling them to do and sat up slowly, wincing with ache but not giving in. The room was small and unfamiliar, its scent lost on his suddenly dull senses. Through the span of his admittedly long life, the Cockney was more than accustomed to waking up in strange places. His entire wake through the sixties was nothing more than drinking and injecting his dead system with every narcotic the book had to offer. And true, while it took an admitted lot to make vampires suffer the same effects as humans, said effects were similarly a thousand times more potent.

The time of his useless waste had ended forty years ago. Waking up now in a strange apartment was not welcoming. And given the lack of strength surging through his worn muscles, it could prove to be dangerous business.

His mind fought for its last memory, ignoring the pains and strains that aligned his body. There were cuts on his arms and chest, but those weren't entirely out of the ordinary, either. His skin had known its fair share of abuse.

But that was it, then. A spark. A burning blaze of glory as fire stretched the length of him, cindering him to nothing at all as the cavern collapsed and she let go of his hand. She. Buffy. Buffy, oh God, where was Buffy? Sunnydale was gone, he remembered that much. He had watched as the world came tumbling down. Watched everything. Sacrificed his life for the sake of a girl.

Had she gotten out? Was she all right? God, she had to be all right.

Something terrible seized his lungs, and Spike hunched over with a sudden coughing fit that attacked from nowhere. The noise was loud but vacant, bouncing off the walls of an apartment he did not know with no one to answer. He had to find out where he was and why he was here. If Buffy had survived—find her if she had. Hold her to him and never let go.

The door to the room suddenly squeaked open and an unfamiliar cute brunette popped her head in. They stared at each other for a long, dumb minute before she sent him a bubbly smile. "Oh! Look, you're awake!" she said cheerily, if not a little embarrassed. "Wes! Wes, he's awake!"

Wes? Who in the bloody blazes was Wes?

_Spike, listen to me. _

He drew in a deep breath and shook his head, fighting his strength and propping himself properly against the headboard. The girl was gone, now, and there were voices in the outer hall. Hers, he assumed—hers and a deeper baritone that either belonged to a bloke named Wes or a chit with a severe hormonal imbalance. Didn't matter, though. Nothing so far had addressed the question of where he was, and—more importantly—why.

_Spike, listen to me. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce._

"Spike?" A man had entered the room. A British gent with a young face and old eyes. He was rugged around the jaw line and, for a human, comparable in size. Not overly tall, by any means, but gave the frontage that he could definitely hold himself in a fight. And he looked even deader than Spike felt.

_I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I used to be Buffy's Watcher. _

The former vampire's eyes widened with recognition. He didn't know from where he knew it, but he did. A fact that was just there. Something that he understood without being told why he should.

This man knew Buffy.

"Spike," the man said again, venturing forward. It should have surprised him that the bloke knew him well enough to address him so casually, but he couldn't find the will to care. All that mattered was his kinship with Buffy. This man could tell him something. Where she was, if she was all right…how long would it be before he could leap out of bed, rush to her side, and spend the rest of eternity in her arms.

Bugger. He had only been un-undead a few conscious minutes and he was already getting ahead of himself. Wherever she was, regardless, there was no guarantee that she would want him. There was no guarantee of anything.

He had no idea how much time had passed. What if the Hellmouth had been sealed for years? What if Buffy was married, her belly full with another man's child? What if she had forgotten all about him?

Well, that last one was unlikely, but the possibility haunted him still. And even if all his other fleeting spur-of-the-moment panics fell through as only that, there was no telling what he would find if and when he saw her again. Her last words—he remembered those. Carried those with him to wherever he had gone, floating on them without mass or thought for what felt like an eternity. Even if they weren't real. It didn't matter if they weren't real. Not when he was dead. All he knew was that they were spoken in her voice while her hand clutched his, her eyes welling with the tears she would cry for him.

Buffy would cry for him.

"Spike?" The man was approaching now. "How are you feeling?"

Bloody loaded question if he ever heard one.

When he opened his mouth to speak, he was astonished at how guttural his voice sounded. Raw. Dry leaves dancing together in a late autumn wind. "Like I was hit by a semi," he replied. "Then dropped off a cliff, smashed by a piano, an' set on fire."

"Yes, I would imagine. Do you remember at all what happened last night?"

"'m guessin' I din't win the Publisher's Clearin' House." Spike drew in a deep breath and winced with the jolt of pain that came along with it. "How long has it been? How long have I been dead?"

"A few months, really. Not long."

That surprised him. Genuinely surprised him. Only a few months. His eyes fluttered shut.

A few months.

"An' Buffy? Where's she? I need to—"

"Find her, yes. You said as much last night."

"I did?"

The chit at the door with the all-too rosy disposition nodded emphatically. "Repeatedly, from what he tells me," she said, then waved. "Hi. I'm Fred."

He nodded politely. "Spike."

"Wes told me, among other things." She smiled and took a few steps forward, hands shifting to her front pockets. "We think you might have caught a cosmic fever or something in traveling between dimensions. It's not that uncommon with, well, people who come back from the dead."

"That why I feel like this?"

"That and the fact that your body's probably going through shock at suddenly being corporeal again. That plus the heartbeat." She shrugged her shoulders and offered a nervous smile that looked natural on her. In knowing her for exactly two minutes, he could tell immediately that this was a girl that could find the good in a nuclear holocaust. He didn't know what to think of her, but found his insides warming in spite of himself. "I'm going to need a sample of blood to examine back at the lab and pinpoint exactly what sort of antidote we're looking for. Wouldn't want you to die, being alive all of a sudden."

An ironic smile tugged at his lips. "No, pet," he agreed softly. "Wouldn't want that." Then he turned to Wesley again, the room still spinning. "How's it that I've got a heartbeat?"

A pause. "I believe that in saving the world, you fulfilled a prophecy that I thought was meant for Angel," he said, obviously careful. Gauging a reaction.

And then recognition hit. Blind. From nowhere. He knew why the bloke was so familiar. Angel. Los Angeles. Angel Investigations, helping the bloody helpless. Figured it would take that to know as much as he did. A sigh coursed through his lips and he nodded, temper flaring briefly at the mention of his grandsire, but his body too worn to react with the vehemence that poured through every artery.

Spike wouldn't give him what he was looking for. Not now. Not when he felt like this. "Prophecy?"

"The vampire with a soul that plays a pivotal role in the apocalypse will have his humanity restored. I thought it would be a little sooner, granted, but…" Wesley shrugged. "We're lucky we found you."

He was sure they were. And it was all overwhelming. Hearing it and processing it was two very separate entities. The sort of understanding that struck minutes before sleep. A new recognition: human. He was human. The heart beating in his chest was real—was his own. He was human, and alive.

_Buffy._

"Buffy. I need to—"

"Yes, I know."

"You keep sayin' that. Where is she?! Did she…she made it, right? She—"

Fred stepped forward, her eyes a tad hazy. "She went to Italy after the town went kabloowie," she said. "We're going to find her for you. But first, some tests? We don't want to get you all revved to see Buffy and then—"

Spike smiled gently and held up a hand. "Right. I'll do whatever I need. Just get me to her."

"Right." Wesley nodded to the girl. "Fred will be back in a minute to take a sample of your blood. Now, I need to know what, if anything, you remember of last night."

"Last night?"

"You don't remember?" The former Watcher pursed his lips and expelled a deep sigh. "You were in quite a state. The marks on your arms? The cuts on your chest?" As if by suggestion alone, his skin seared with pain and the vampire willed his eyes closed. "Yes. You did all those last night…wanting to know if you were real. It's how I found you, actually. You caused quite a ruckus down at one of the filthier pubs in this town. Wolfram and Hart received a call and—"

"Wolfram an' Hart?" He peeked an eye open. "Greatest evil on earth? Same Wolfram an' Hart, right?"

Wesley huffed up a little at that, defensive façade falling over his face. "Not anymore. Just a few days before Sunnydale was destroyed, Angel struck a deal with the Senior Partners and now we head the Los Angeles division. We're trying to turn—"

Spike's eyes boggled. "Whoa. Wait. Back up. _Peaches _is drivin' the greatest evil known to…mankind? Are you outta your bleedin' mind?" It took another minute before the humor in the situation struck, and he threw his head back with an attempt at a rich laugh that was masked with a cough. "Bloody hell, never thought…I'd see the day when the nancy sod would step up a mark an'…an' become even more hypocritical than he was…before. Workin' for Hell on Earth's not exactly…exactly the mark of a champion. No bloody wonder I got mojo'ed back in human skin an' he's still his broodin' self."

There was no direct reply, and therefore deciphering that he had slammed headfirst into a sore spot wasn't exactly difficult. A sigh set upon his shoulders and he rolled his head back. "Lemme guess," he said slowly. Careful. Tempering his pace as to not over-exert himself just to make a point. "You took…the fruit off the Tree of Good an' Evil 'cause some…some skimpy spokesperson who…looked good in a short skirt assured you that you could keep…keep on fightin' the good fight, never mind the fact that they're already nose-deep in a deal with the devil." A significant break at that to catch his breath before he ran out of it. And despite the pause, Wesley's eyes remained heavy. Considering. This invigorated the former vampire, and he jumped back on track before his body could convince him otherwise. "An' Peaches, bein' the overbearin' ponce that he is…figured he could walk into the very…heart of temptation without battin' an' eye." Spike shook his head with a small, incredulous laugh that came out more as a cough. "You don' mess with power…not like Wolfram an' Hart…mate. I wouldn't've touched it even when I was evil. 'S more than me an' you…'s big enough to take everythin' else over an'…make it look like someone in the workroom hit the wrong button. Don' see how he's s'posed to be…helpin' protect people 'f he's runnin' the reason they're hurtin' in the firs' place."

Another still beat settled through the room. The look haunting Wesley's face had deepened from merely bothered to tortured. That absent knowledge that kept killing him with every wake. "We were going to try to turn the place around," he said softly.

Spike arched a cool brow. "You think they woulda let you in 'f that had even the remotest possibility?"

"Of course not. Which is why finding you was so fortunate." Wesley expelled a deep breath and glanced up again. "We're going to get you well, Spike. And then we're leaving to find Buffy. I'd imagine Rupert couldn't be too far off from where she is. We will find her."

"An' then…what?" The former vampire's eyes widened in alarm. "You can't send her back here, mate. She jus' got her normal life. She doesn' need to be in the thick of another—"

"Spike."

"No! I won' let you! I'll kill you firs'! I—"

Wesley held up a hand. "I have no intention of declaring war on Wolfram and Hart. It's a battle we cannot win. To eradicate such malevolence from the world, you would also have to kill all its citizens. It feeds on evil, and there is evil in everyone…and no way to take that back."

"Oh." Slowly, he began calm. "Oh. Then why—"

"It's a matter of survival. Staying here is killing me. It's killing us all." He shook his head. "I won't presume to think I can get through to Angel. I believe he is too preoccupied with whatever good he thinks he is doing, far being from finding a cure for Cordelia. But I have no intention of allowing it to destroy me in the process. Or Lorne or Gunn, if I can help it." Another sigh trembled through him. "We are leaving here once you are well enough. We are getting away." He paused once more, conviction set in his eyes. "And regardless of what she says, I'm taking Fred with us."

Spike's brows perked appraisingly. "'S that right?"

"She'll thank me for it later. As for what she says now…I really do not care." He started to say something else, but quickly closed his mouth as Fred bustled back into the room, all sunshine and smiles despite the intimidating needle she wielded. The vampire obligingly forfeited his arm, watching the former Watcher's eyes carefully as he studied the brunette beauty hunched over his bedside.

He knew that look. Oh, how he knew that look.

It was the sort of look that stormed emotion. And emotion was something he knew a thing or two about. Unrequited love. Longing so desperate that he could barely breathe, only to stop and remind himself that he didn't need to.

Only he did now. The breaths heaving from his chest were not a luxury. They were needed. As was food, water, shelter, an income, and all the things he had taken for granted for the past century.

It would hit him soon. The realization of what had happened—he knew it would hit him soon. At any moment, he would come to the ultimate understanding that he was no longer a creature of the night. That he could walk in sunlight, touch crosses, drink holy water if he liked. No longer did invisible barriers block his entrance to homes he had yet to visit.

But yes. He knew that look. He knew every agonizing strain of that look. He felt it every time his vision was blocked by his golden goddess—so close. Close enough to touch.

_Buffy._

Spike shook his head and flinched as Fred withdrew the needed sample of blood. It wouldn't be long, he told himself. It couldn't be too long. He would find her. He had to. That he knew for certain.

Whether or not she wanted to be found, by him especially, was a different matter altogether.

* * *

He was looking into the mirror, and could see himself looking back.

It was autumn. The autumn following Sunnydale's disappearance. Spike stifled a chuckle at that. Autumn. The year hadn't even had the decency to change. So, for the first time in a hundred and twenty three years that he had looked into anything other than a snapshot and seen his eyes looking back. The vast, empty reflection of a sky that had lost its stars. His body was aligned with healing scars that would have been gone—should have been gone. And evermore, there was that blasted sound. Echoing from somewhere deep inside him. A resonating presence that he had once taken for granted. The proof of life. What people died preserving for others. The reason anyone was on this blasted earth at all.

The quiet torment of a heartbeat. His heartbeat. The motion was so furious, he wondered how it did not leap out of his chest. Clamoring against him. Beating at his skin—a prisoner of war. He had died and now his heart was beating. He had a heartbeat.

And that was blood running through his veins. Blood was circulating in his body.

He could see his reflection. He was looking in the mirror, and he could see his reflection.

He had died only to live. Studying hands that shouldn't exist. Examining wounded skin that, just yesterday, had not been attached to any body. His head pounded. His heart bellowed. It was so loud. Life was so loud. He hadn't vamp hearing, but he was going deaf from the screaming of it. His entire body was screaming with life.

It had really happened. He was alive. Alive.

And that was all he could take. Spike tore his empty ocean eyes away from the broken man staring at him. He had to get back into bed. He had to. Had to get in bed and get ready. Ready for Buffy. God, he needed Buffy.

He didn't make it to the bed. His legs gave way within two steps and then he was on his knees.

Alive. He was alive. And he didn't know if his reason for living would want him or not. His body ached for hers. Ached for her arms around him, welcoming him to a home that he did not deserve. For the penance he had fought purgatory to earn. He would sacrifice all of heaven just to escape this hell.

Centuries of living and he didn't know a thing about life. Not a damn thing.

The air around him broke with the weight of his sobs. His body curled on the floor, inches away from the mirror that taunted him with his image. His broken image.

The night held nothing for him now. Nothing. Not even heat to drive away this insufferable cold.

And he wept.

**To be continued in Part Three: _In Sin And Error Pining_...**


	3. In Sin And Error Pining

**A/N: **Squee! _Blood and Mistletoe _won Best Fluffy, Judge's Choice, and runner up for Best Holiday at the VK Awards! _Grey Gardens of Shadowed Rapture _won Best Plot, too! Thank you guys so, so much!

**In Sin And Error Pining**

Fred was not above asking for help, especially when someone needed it. Her philosophy remained steadfast in light of anyone waiting to be rescued. And though the situation with Spike was not so hopeless that she thought he couldn't manage on his own, she worried for him. Two weeks had already passed and little to no improvement could be seen. His scars were healing, yes, and he was more than willing to suffer through whatever test she thought was appropriate. His fever would fluctuate pending on the temperature, and while she was coming closer to finding an antidote, she was worried that the illness would send him into a coma before any serious progress could be made.

Healing him was only a steppingstone.

Which was why she was turning to the voice of reason. Through thick and thin, Angel had been there for her. Rescued her from her cave and brought her from her hell and to the real world again. And true, while he was a little power hungry nowadays, he was hardly the criminal Wesley seemed to think he was.

There was so much going on right now—so much to consider. Every day sprouted new theories, new to-do lists, new methods of leave without attracting too much attention. New suggestions on what it was that a rehabilitated vampire-turned-human needed. What could be done to make the transformation more bearable for him. What, if anything.

Fred had her own opinion, but she kept it to herself. Kept it until it was ready to boil over the surface. Spike needed family. Right now, more than anything, he needed family.

And the only family available to him was Angel.

The entire vampire/sire/childe relationship was something that Fred had shoved indefinitely to the side of her thought process. She knew that Darla had made Angel, who made Drusilla—though; she had still been lodged in Pylea during the entire Drusilla episode of three years prior. She knew now that Drusilla had made Spike—then William the Bloody, and that Spike had obtained a soul by bargaining with a demon. Obtained a soul, it seemed, for the love of the Slayer that Angel had once dated.

It was Gunn that had sat her down to explain the entire thing, which was why—she reasoned—her head still spun whenever the family tree was mentioned. For if Darla was Angel's mother, and Angel was Drusilla's father, and Drusilla was Spike's mother…well, the men of that clan had an Oedipus complex that would give Freud a headache. And then, to top it all off, both had gone and fallen in love with the same Slayer. _And _both had, at some point, become the only two vampires to ever obtain their souls.

Now, Fred remembered Angelus. Oh, she remembered Angelus. With the year behind them still cooling the tracks; reign of fire, the Beast, Cordelia being the Big Bad and now stuck in a Big Coma, and the mind-warping Jasmine…Angelus stuck out as the memory that frightened her the most.

Perhaps it was because Angelus wore the same face that she saw every day. Angelus provided the first hand knowledge of how vampires with souls differed from vampires without. She had always known on a surface level, of course, but that entire ordeal opened her eyes in ways they never would have by themselves.

The thought that a vampire as soulless as Angelus could have fallen in love as deeply as Wesley related it: wept, bled, sacrificed, cared, consoled, and felt all before the soul came into play struck Fred in a way she had not been prepared for. And for what she had seen since that panicked phone call of a few nights ago, she was more than willing to sacrifice whatever she could to make sure Spike got what he wanted.

And what he wanted was Buffy. A girl that Fred only knew by reputation. A girl that Fred had always associated with Angel's destiny. Even with Cordelia in the picture, there had been that lingering nag—likely by suggestion from Cordelia herself—that Buffy was the big it for their brooding boss.

Not so anymore. Angel had lost himself in the work at Wolfram and Hart. He was plagued with something no one wanted to name. Wesley said he had allowed the firm to corrupt him, but Fred wasn't so quick to judge. There were always circumstances. The Angel she knew wouldn't succumb to the whim of the Senior Partners just because he sat in the big chair. It didn't happen like that.

Maybe he was worried about Cordelia. Months were gone, and she still wasn't out of her coma.

Maybe. But until then, idle speculation would get her nowhere. And she needed Angel right now to be a sire. To be family to Spike, even if Spike had claimed the Shanshu prophecy that they had been waiting for Angel to obtain for years.

It didn't matter. The platinum former vampire had earned it. He had sought a soul against his nature for the woman he was not supposed to love, then turned around and saved the world just a year later. Oh yeah. Spike had definitely wormed into her heart just for being what she had wanted Gunn to be.

What Gunn had nearly been.

Fred stopped in the laboratory before calling Angel's receptionist to confirm her appointment and took a few minutes prior to leaving to instruct Knox on what compounds he should mix with Spike's antibiotic. Wolfram and Hart's amenities were, if nothing else, extremely useful in resources. She had safely discarded three of her five concoctions and had a good feeling about the fourth. It was only a matter of time, and hoping the recently Shanshued vampire had that to spare.

Nevertheless, she was entirely fortunate to have such an able-bodied facility at her disposal. Wolfram and Hart had an unsurprisingly large amount of experience with inter-dimensional illnesses. The catalogs lodged in even the past five years had been an enormous help.

The elevator ride to Angel's office sent another pang of nostalgia to her heart. She really missed the Hyperion. While never simple, the small, close-knit environment had certainly felt homier than this; a calloused building stockpiled with evil lawyers and a vampire she respected but was learning to fear all over again.

Fred offered a timid wave and a grin as she stepped into Angel's office. The small part of her that had yet to completely forgo her schoolgirl crush fluttered a bit when he smiled back. There. Wesley was wrong. Deep down, all regardless, he was still Angel. He was still their boss. Angel Investigations had merely…upgraded.

"Fred," he greeted warmly. "What can I do for you?"

"Well…there's a bit of a sticky wicket." She blushed at the look he gave her and glanced down. "You might have noticed that Wesley and I have been taking a lot of personal days. And—"

He held up a hand abruptly. "Fred, whatever you and Wes do…you know how I feel about you two. And I know you've been getting work done. This is us, right? Never stopped us before."

She frowned. "We're not…Wesley and I, we're not…it's not like that. I'm helping him with something. You see…" A deep breath rolled off her shoulders. "You remember a couple weeks back when we got that call about the disturbance down at the bar?"

"What bar?"

"I dunno…just…_that _bar. And you sent Wesley to check it out?"

Angel sat back, perplexed. "I asked Wes to go to a bar and check out a local disturbance call? Isn't that a little out of our territory?"

"Yes, but you asked him to go. Anyway, the particulars don't really matter." Fred stopped and quirked her head. "Well, they do, actually. They matter a lot. See, something happened that night. There was a prophecy…" She licked her lips. Here came the hard part. Telling Angel that a vampire he hated had Shanshued in his place. A vampire that coincidentally earned his soul for the woman Angel had come to Los Angeles to escape. Was there anything _not _complicated about this mess? "I…I really don't know how to say this…"

"Well, if it's a prophecy and Wes is working on it…" There was a minute there when the vampire's eyes went dark as though remembering something he would rather forget. "If Wes is working on a prophecy, I'd think—"

"Angel. It's Spike." There. Out in three words. Wasn't so hard. "He's back, soul included." Wrong assessment. In two seconds, the look on his face had fallen almost darker than she had ever seen it. Dark and worse; blank. Thoroughly blank as though she had shocked him back to life. And, worse yet, there was more. More that came out in a quickened ramble as her nerves kicked into full-force. "Oh, and did I mention the heartbeat? And the pulse? And the…reflection, sudden appetite, functioning body parts, and ability to take daytime strolls through the park? He's—"

"He's human."

"Yeah."

"Spike Shanshued."

Fred smiled nervously and nodded. The blankness in his eyes was beginning to unnerve her. "Again, yeah. And he's sick. Really, really sick. I have my lab looking at samples of saliva and skin tissue to work out an antidote. Really, it shouldn't take too much longer. He just has a flu or something from inter-dimensional travel. And a hundred-plus dead body suddenly coming full circle with a heartbeat? That tends to sick the big whammy on you. He was kinda out of it for the first two days or so. Cut himself up pretty bad. Wesley thinks he would have carved his heart out if he could've."

Angel was staring at a point on the wall behind her. He gave no motion to the fact that he had heard anything since he last spoke.

"The point is," Fred continued, nerves daring to relax a little. "Wesley wants to get him out of the country as soon as he's able to travel. Forge some paperwork and the rest…he's going to ask Spike where he kept his, if he did before he, you know…got chipped up and juiced with a soul. Chances are he just ate whoever…but that's beside the point." Deep breath. "I'm here because Spike needs someone. He's going through something really, really hard right now. Something no vampire has ever gone through before. And he needs…well, he's been asking for…but we can't really get her right now. He needs family."

There was a snap at that. Angel blinked rapidly and tossed her a look that could freeze and thaw Hell in the same blow. "Spike has been back for more than two weeks," he began heatedly, "and _this _is the first I'm hearing about it?"

Fred bit her lip. "I…Wesley thought it'd be better if—"

_"Wesley_ thought." There was a small, incredulous chuckle at that. "Oh, I see. _Wesley _thought. Wesley's just full of bright ideas, isn't he? Just full of them. Last year it was replace me with Angelus while Cordelia and the Beast danced around in permanent midnight. Year before, he takes Connor, gives him to Holtz, and my son grows up hating me in some hell dimension. And now this!" A violent slam against the desk as the vampire shot to his feet. _"This? _Wesley's been—"

"Taking care of someone who _needs _someone right now," she barked. "And what are you talking about? Who's Connor? What son? You lost me around that bend."

There was a sigh at that. Angel stopped and gained control of himself, holding up a hand. "It doesn't matter, Fred—"

"The hell it doesn't! Spike's sick! I came to you because you're—"

"Spike's sick. Spike's sick." Angel tossed her an angry glare. "What do you expect me to do about it, hmmm? Take his temperature? Feed him some Campbell's? He's _human_. Not a vampire. Any connection that we had—any _family _ties that we had—is gone. I can't do anything. All right?"

"Angel, he needs—"

"What do you expect me to do?"

Fred stammered, stupefied. "Be civil was at the top of the list. I thought that since you know Spike better than anyone and since you _are _family, whether you want to argue technicalities or not, you might have it in yourself to…you know…be family."

"And do what, exactly?"

"Well…I don't know. I guess…after he's better, help us get out of the country so we can find Buffy? That being a good place to—"

The temperature in the room dropped without warning.

"You want me…" Angel held up a hand as though trying to rationalize her request. "To help my whelp of a grandchilde who has just stolen my Shanshu prophecy to find the woman _I _was supposed to spend my life with after I'd completed the prophecy and just…accept that?"

Fred frowned. "Since when has it been about Buffy?"

"What?"

"Well, I know she was your—"

"Fred—"

"—but Spike loves her, and he's sacrificed so much for her. And now he has things to offer and he's come back from God knows where. He's sick and miserable and cutting himself and _god, _how can you not want to help him get to Buffy?"

"It's simple. Really. Buffy deserves better."

"Than a man that risked and sacrificed _everything _to—" Fred cut herself off abruptly, eyes widening in realization as she took in the uncomfortable and nearly seething look on Angel's face. Her demeanor softened immediately. There were some things she would never agree with, but her friend had sacrificed a good deal as well. Oh yes. The years had known much sacrifice. And she knew then that Buffy had little to do with it. It was the image of Buffy, the promise of Buffy—a woman far from the place that Angel traveled.

But in his world, regardless of what changed, that promise had remained the same.

Now nothing was the same.

"Angel," she began again, calmer. "It's the right thing to do. We need to help Spike. He's sick and he needs her. He's cutting himself. He just got mojo'ed back from the great beyond after making himself a martyr for her. We owe the world to him…literally."

"And how many people owe the world to us?"

She smiled sympathetically. "When did it start being about that? He needs help. He needs family."

"I'm not going to—"

"Angel." There was a note of finality in her tone. That sort of dreary reservation she saved for last resorts. "What if it was Cordelia?"

His eyes softened. Cordelia.

There it was. Now she had reached him. By invoking the name of the woman he loved now, not the name of a promise he had long ago broken without admitting it to himself. A pipedream he had released. That last hold on his past broken when Sunnydale was destroyed.

Broken far before that.

Cordelia. Spike was Buffy's Cordelia. A step admitted from the bounds of naïve _first_ love to the second and more potent _true_ love. Spike had died preserving Buffy. Angel would have done the same for Cordelia. Buffy he had loved, but not in the same way. Not in means of forever. And when she had died two years ago, he had not grieved as he thought he would.

Because Buffy was no longer it for him. Cordelia was. Just as Spike was it for Buffy. And Buffy was it for Spike.

Fred's pulse raced. She had made it real for him.

Now there was hope.

* * *

Two weeks had done little good in lessening Spike's resolve. While his body was wracked with illness, his mind was sharp and determined. He enjoyed Wesley's company almost against his will—enjoyed that someone who had only know him through the tide of history could be so interested in helping his cause. It didn't matter, though. Not in the long run. These people were kind and helpful, but they weren't Buffy.

He didn't remember what had happened after the Hellmouth collapsed around him. Didn't remember anything but the burn of where their hands had been linked. The look in her gaze when she told him that she loved him. Fire spreading that didn't kill. Didn't hurt. Didn't hurt as much as those gorgeous eyes had when he rebuked her declaration with warmth in the guise of logicality.

For a minute, it seemed like she had conceded herself over. Tying herself to him with fire. Telling him without words, with emotions they had waited forever to share, that she wouldn't live in the world without him in it. That if he was going to close the Hellmouth, she would be right there. By his side. She would share his journey through darkness and hold his hand all the while.

It seemed far beyond believability that Buffy would have ever considered doing such a thing for him. But her eyes had told him that. In that instant, she had given him more than anyone else ever had. Her love burning through him—linked hands sharing the fire. He felt it. Felt her reserve and her penance. Felt everything he had waited so long to feel. But in that ending second where he had a choice, he refused to be that selfish.

He wanted to keep her with him, but she was not one to be kept. His Buffy belonged to the world.

So, in the end, he had given her back. In seconds, wiser than ever before.

And then nothing at all.

He was back now. Back in a body that hurt. In a body that ached with a soul that wept. It was so bright. So sharp and violent. He was surrounded by noise—the reality _of _reality was too much to grasp. There was nothing in this world for him. How he had survived this long, he had no idea. How he had survived at all before was, in itself, beyond him.

Buffy had told him this once. Told him how unbearable the world was after knowing peace. But she had been in Heaven. She remembered something other than this. He didn't. Even his memories were wracked with a feeling of insurmountable insecurity. And God, he needed her to help him get through it.

His cuts were healing. He needed new cuts.

"Good news," Wesley said as he entered the bedroom, snapping his cell phone closed. The past two weeks had seen little time outside these walls; the former Watcher had graciously handed over his bed and his clothing as if there was no question in the matter. Spike toyed with the dry notion that he was the replacement Angel; a redemption case for the Watcher types to study. He disliked the thought immensely, but wasn't about to snub kindness…regardless of the motive. "That was Fred. She believes she has finally concocted the right antibiotic in her laboratory to neutralize the fever."

Spike smiled wryly. "'Bout bloody time."

He hated the sickness more than anything. It had been too long since he knew disease, and since reemerging from the Big Sleep in human skin, that alone had nearly killed him all over again. Were it not for the promise of Buffy, he wouldn't bother to try.

It wasn't as bad as it had been, of course. He could talk now with much less strain. Could even walk around if he wanted to. It was a general consensus that as little movement, though, would help him heal.

"After you're better," Wesley continued, "we will start looking at travel options."

"Thought you knew where she was."

There was no questioning the _she _in that statement.

"We do. But that does not mean we can simply hop a plane and have that be that. You're human now. We would need passports, identification, the proper papers, money—"

Spike nodded. "An' here I thought bein' tapped in to the greatest evil on the planet would at leas' have its benefits."

"We are not going to Wolfram and Hart for help."

"Why not?"

"You know perfectly well why not. I believe it was _you _who lectured me on the matter."

A sigh rolled off the former vampire's shoulders and his head lulled back. "Bloody wanker picks the absolute worst times to listen to me."

Wesley's eyes narrowed. "Did you or did you not—"

"Yeh, yeh. I did." Spike fidgeted uncomfortably. "Don' have to rub it in. But 'f granddaddy Peaches is really runnin' the show like you said, 's not so—"

The other man shook his head conclusively. "Angel cannot know," he said. "I've read enough about the rivalry between you two to know that he would not react favorably at the notion that you have essentially robbed him of any lasting chance of retaining humanity. For years, he worked solely to fulfill the Shanshu prophecy. And now—"

"Now he's runnin' Evil Incorporated. Sounds to me like he'd already given up."

"Now—"

"An' 'f he hadn't, there'd be no reason why you're hankerin' to get overseas as much as I am." Spike paused cautiously. "An' why you're takin' Fred with you. Gettin' her as far away from dear ole daddy as possible."

Wesley shook his head. "I'm not afraid of Angel," he said sincerely. "There has been too much there for me to ever really fear him. Perhaps once when I was younger and…less wise to the ways of things. I wasn't even too terribly afraid of Angelus when we met. You cannot fear Angelus and expect to live."

There was a snort at that. "Oh right. You an' the mystics brought out the wanker last year, din't you?"

"We thought it was for the best."

"Yeh, an' I'm Ed McMahon." Spike chuckled and shook his head. "You don' release the one vamp in history that made the big uglies quake in the knees for the best. There's always another option."

Wesley arched a cool brow. "Did I detect a smidgeon of jealousy in that, or is it the fever talking?"

"Me? Jealous of Angel?" Another snicker. "I thought you said you'd _read _our history. There's never been anythin' but jealousy between us."

"And you wonder why letting him know of the Shanshu prophecy is a bad idea."

"Don' rightly care 'f he's hurtin', mate. I jus' wanna get to my girl."

"She'll be there, Spike. Time has moved differently for us." Wesley shook his head. "For you it's been forever. I don't presume to know how inter-dimensional travel affects one's psyche, but I suspect that it seems forever has passed. It hasn't. It's barely been any time at all. Buffy will be there."

There was a cool confidence in the former Watcher's tone that unnerved him. Spike knew the universe too well to gamble on absolutes. She would be there, yes, but would she want him?

_Warmth. Fire. I love you._

_No you don't. But thanks for sayin' it._

Words, words, words.

Wesley turned to his dresser and started rummaging through clothes that were no longer his. There was the promise of that. When this was over, they were leaving everything behind. "I'm leaving because I am not strong enough to fight Wolfram and Hart," he said a few minutes later. "I wasn't when Angel was with us, and I certainly can't hope to go against him now. I believe that he believes working there is the right thing…that he's focused his priorities _on_ the right thing. But you cannot make a deal with the devil and not expect there to be a loophole down the road. Mine will catch up with me one day. My contract forged to bind me to them forever…lose my soul like Lilah did. I can't erase my shadows, Spike, but for a while, I can stand on top of them. Get the better of them long enough to fight like hell before it's over." He turned around slowly. "And for a while, I can try to do what's right. I can get you out of the country and help you get to what you have earned. I can try to save Fred, too. But I cannot save myself." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "It will end up destroying me."

Spike just watched him for a few minutes, unaware of what to say. There was a sort of a universal respect for despair that he was well acquainted with. The look in the other man's eyes had told him as much from day one. They all had their demons to bear. All of them. He didn't know yet what Wesley had been through, but he would wager his humanity on the violence of it.

But the former Watcher didn't want pity. That much was evident in his delivery alone. So he nodded and fought the instinctive swarm of reassurances that always carried Buffy's voice while locked in his head, and nodded. "Bummer."

"Yes," the other man agreed wryly. "It is, isn't it?"

They shared a look of mutual amusement, however dry. The serenity of the moment spoiled by a tentative knock at the front door. Wesley excused himself wordlessly. It was no surprise when he returned with Fred at the heel.

"Dr. Burkle here to cure the un-undead," she chirped cheerily as means of salutation. She looked professional; lab coat still on her shoulders, a briefcase clutched in her grasp. And Spike didn't miss the adoring look that overwhelmed Wesley's eyes for a few brief seconds. Right. The bloke had it bad.

"I have a delivery for a Mister—"

Her jollity humored him, but he was in no mood to drag this out. Spike sat up and nodded shortly. "Right. Do I drink it or you gonna shoot it up my arm or what?"

The sun in Fred's eyes dimmed slightly, but she nodded her understanding. "It's a shot. I need your left arm, please. Are you allergic to anyth—." Her voice cut off abruptly as she caught his look. "Oh, right. Well, I brought a load of other antibiotics in case you have a violent reaction to the medication."

Spike arched a cool brow. "Define _violent reaction, _pet."

She waved dismissively. "I don't think we'll have to worry about that. Here. Give me your arm."

The procedure lasted only seconds. She swathed his skin in alcohol and delivered the injection with all the means of a professional. The former vampire was almost surprised when the infliction hurt. He had been such a pansy to pain as a human; not something he was looking forward to rehashing. And while Fred very obviously saw the wince as the needle made contact, she kindly avoided making mention of it.

The medication was already working as she bandaged him up. Then she handed him a lollipop and scribbled a prescription onto a legal pad.

"You'll want to take this two times a day for about a month," she said. "I gave you enough to get you through two weeks. Take this to a pharmacist in Rome when you get there. Some of the stuff is black-markety, but I wouldn't worry too much."

Spike fought off a grin, studying his lollipop with barely-guised bemusement. "You are too much," he said, smiling fully when she blushed.

"Oh," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it. And you can have the pharmacist put that into pill form. The injection's only necessary for the first dosage. Gets your body fully acquainted with the medication. Everything else…" She demonstratively flipped her briefcase open and tossed him a small container full of rattling pills. "Is right here."

Wesley stepped forward at that, no longer trying to hide the warm glow of love that radiated behind his gaze. He smiled affectionately at her when she looked at him for approval, but there was something else there that unhinged the former vampire to no end. The nasty but inevitable _but _clause that manifested in all transactions. "Ummm, Fred," he said softly. "I couldn't help but notice you said…_when _he gets to Rome. I didn't realize we had finalized any arrangements."

"We have," she said, reaching into her briefcase again. "I know what you're going to say, but I made an appointment with Angel today."

Both men froze and stared at her.

"He knows?" Wesley's voice was small and dangerous.

"He knows."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell…"

The other man was not nearly as passive. "Fred! I thought—"

"I know, I know. And you were right…at first." Fred licked her lips and pulled the other surprise out of her briefcase and handed it to the former Watcher tentatively. "I double-checked everything just to be on the safe side. It's legitimate. All of it. The passports, the papers, the ID. And he's forwarded us two hundred thousand dollars to make sure there are no medical emergencies."

The former vampire could not believe his ears. "What? Peaches is…"

She nodded and smiled softly. "He's helping."

"An' he knows—"

"The prophecy's shot to hell? Yeah, he knows."

Spike's brows perked. "I'll be damned."

"Not today, mister. I just dosed you up on the most expensive and probably most illegal medication you can get in California."

He smiled in appreciation and his insides laced with hope.

_Buffy._

It was really happening. He was going to Buffy.

"I still don' understand, though," he said slowly. "Why—"

Wesley moved at that, finally tearing his eyes away from the piece of paper that had enraptured his attention since Fred handed it to him. He glanced to the former vampire with calm pensiveness. "Here," he said. "I believe that sums it up."

Spike held his gaze for a long, perplexed moment before glancing down.

It did. It more than summed it up. It explained everything.

Everything.

_Spike,_

_Take care of her. You know what happens if you don't._

That much was typed on a professional legal sheet. Cold and unfeeling, and it wasn't what caught his eye. What took his breath away.

That lay at the bottom in very familiar penmanship.

_Because of Cordelia._

- _Angel._

He knew what had happened, then. What Fred had done. It was a time for understanding. And perhaps after a century and a quarter, he and the overbearing ponce finally understood each other.

Perhaps.

**To be continued in Part Four: _The Ivory Green..._**


	4. The Ivory Green

**The Ivory Green**

Rome.

Perhaps the only place on earth that could face the winds of time without adhering bending appropriately to revolution. It had not changed in fifty years; it had not changed in a hundred. Not for the conveniences of cars and motorboats, nor chain restaurants and tourism. All else notwithstanding, it was the same Rome he had known all those years ago. He remembered standing at the steps of the Pantheon, blood dribbling down his face from a late night feast as the sun merged over the lazy horizon. A gorgeous sight, even for one who could not enjoy its warmth. Granted, there had not been time to bask; Angelus and Darla were easily bored, and their massacre having come to a disappointing end, they were ready to take their party elsewhere.

Drusilla had complied eagerly. He had wanted to stay and watch the sun. A young vampire, then. In the early stages where he had lived just long enough to verify that he wasn't going to be offed like a nameless fledgling, but similarly without the luxuries of an experienced master.

Angelus had invited him to sunrise. And eventually, as it would for every morning for the next century and a quarter, the dawn had rejected him and forced him back into the shadows.

Standing at the Pantheon now, Fred and Wesley beside him, Spike had to battle the urge of instinctive panic that surged through him every time his skin was kissed by a golden ray. He flinched whenever they were drawn from the shadows; at times, reaching for his coat to protect himself from meeting his end. It grew easier with each pass.

Was it possible to eradicate a century of habitual death? He had been dead for so long that life seemed rather pointless in comparison.

"Oh! Look!" Fred was buried in the brochure snagged from the airport, her eyes alight with interest. Wesley and Spike had taken turns to attract her attention to the more palpable intrigues that Italy had to offer with little avail. She was a child on Christmas morning, immersed in the magic of a city that never aged. "There's a vampire tour!"

The men traded a long glance.

She frowned. "What?"

"Kinda pointless to go on a vampire tour, luv," Spike offered softly, not without a smile. "'Sides, it's nothin' fancy. A take off of the Big Easy…which is ironic, 'cause the Big Easy's pretty much a take off of everythin' else in Europe."

A pout crossed her brow. "I thought it'd be entertaining."

"The lives of vampires who live in coffins and turn into bats." The platinum blonde rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "'ve gotten so bloody sick of that stereotype."

"Now be fair," Wesley inferred. "It might have been authentic."

"'F it was, it wouldn't be advertised in a sodding brochure, mate."

"Haven't you ever read Anne Rice?" Fred asked pointedly. "Vampires pretending to be humans pretending to be vampires? It's a classic conundrum!"

Spike opted to keep his very unflattering opinion of Anne Rice to himself while arching his brow at her in silent response. She flashed a smile and shrugged, pocketing the brochure with a cheery sigh. "Well…you both have been here," she observed. "What's there to do?"

"We're not on vacation, Fred," Wesley reminded her.

"You two lovebirds are on your own after I find the Slayer," the former vampire agreed. "'m sure there's loads better to do than shadow a has-been Big Bad."

"Like finding Giles and beginning to form a front against Wolfram and Hart, perchance?" Wesley asked, doming a brow. "Or perhaps Willow…she mentioned the last time we spoke of being tapped into some magic—"

"Deep enough to destroy the world? Yeh—been there, done that. Wolfram an' Hart'd chew her up without botherin' to spit her out again. You have any conceivable idea jus' how much mojo Red can handle?" Spike chuckled humorlessly. "She's cleansed, I think…but that doesn' mean they'd be beyond a seduction plan."

"Even with Angel as the CEO?" Fred asked helplessly. "I mean, he did help us get here and everything…right?"

The men exchanged another glance.

"A-and," she continued, "Lorne and Charles…they're still over there. Working there. And what about Cordelia?"

"Do you really think Cordelia would approve of what has happened?" Wesley asked softly.

"Well, her body being the vessel for an evil god bent on world domination using the guise of world peace? I'd say not. But she definitely wouldn't want us to go after Angel. He's a champion. He's a good guy. He's—"

"A bloody ocean away an' still drivin' me crazy," Spike grumbled, caressing his brow with a groan. "Look poodle, I know my grandpap means an annoyin' lot to you. An' yeah, I'm grateful that he was able to step off his almighty horse an' lend yours truly a hand. An', as much as it chafes me, the big git likely doesn' realize what he's doin'."

"So, instead of trying to talk with him reasonably, we should just organize an army and attack?"

The former vampire threw his hands up in the air. "I din't say anythin' about attackin'. That's yours and Princeton's area. I wash my hands of the Aurelius clan. Bloke was nice enough to lend us his goods, but that's it. I'm here for Buffy…an' then I'm through."

Fred glanced to Wesley. "And you're not going back?"

He shot her a pained look. "No," he replied softly. "I can't."

"Can't?"

A few rugged breaths tugged at his throat, his tormented eyes begging her wordlessly to understand. "Wolfram and Hart…I don't presume to know how Gunn feels. Or Lorne. But it was killing me. When I found Spike that first night, it was a way out. And I am out. I'm out." He lowered his gaze to the ground. "I called you that night because I wanted you out, too. I wanted you away from there…where they could not reach you."

There was a long pause. It was strange; a suspended moment in a steady stream of traffic. Three people that were otherwise of no consequence. Just three people in Rome. Talking as the masses passed without a second glance.

"And if I…" Fred suddenly looked nervous, swiping her hands on her jeans and taking long, calculative glances at their surroundings. "And if I want to go back?"

Spike cast Wesley a somber look. The question had obviously lingered in the background. A sort of foreknowledge that no one wanted to admit. However, for everything he knew about the man that stood by his side, he would not have predicted the answer that came tumbling out his mouth.

"You don't," the former Watcher said softly. "I won't let you go back."

"What?" Spike asked.

"What?" Fred echoed.

"I'm sorry," he said, casting his gaze downward. "But I cannot allow it. Wolfram and Hart would destroy you, Fred. It was destroying me. I got you out, and if I have to chain you in a closet—something I _have_ been known to do—you will not be going back. If you resent me forever, I do not care. At least I will die knowing that I have saved you."

Her eyes were wide with astonishment. The former vampire couldn't say he blamed her. "Wesley—"

"I got you out, Fred."

"Yes, under the pretense that we were helping someone—"

"We are." He spoke shortly—such to the point that she would know there was nothing else to say on the matter. "We are helping Spike find Buffy. Afterwards…well, I don't know…but I cannot go back there. It was killing us."

"It's not your decision, Wesley!"

"Oh, but I think it is."

"I don't know where you get off telling me—"

He shook his head, raising a hand to effectively diminish her argument. "It's for your own good, Fred."

She glared at him. "I think you need to spend a little less time worrying about my own good and a little more considering problems that actually involve you. You're not going to tell me where I'm allowed, Wesley. I'm sorry."

It was strange watching a scene from his life fold out in the guise of someone else's. Spike licked his lips as he watched Fred backtrack and turn in the other direction. There was no qualm as to where she was going; they had checked into one of the more touristy hotels immediately after the airport. There was a shortage of options on where to run.

Perhaps it was out of habit; so ingrained in his long list of situational responses that his body couldn't help but obey, even if it was someone else's girl he was chasing. Heedless of the fact that he left Wesley standing alone down the way, Spike took after Fred and was mildly surprised when his lungs challenged him after the fact.

"Bloody hell," he gasped, hunching over. "Need a smoke."

Fred's brows perked and a shadow of a grin crossed her face. "Yeah. That's definitely what the oxygen shortage is telling me. Besides…no smokes, remember?" She reached into her knapsack and removed an apple, handing to him with customary perkiness. "Munch on that. Remember our agreement?"

He grumbled but munched obediently. "Sodding Nazi."

"Am not!"

"Where you think you're goin', pet?"

Her eyes softened at that, hazarding a glance over his shoulder. "Away. Wesley can't just…waltz into my life and expect everything to work out. I—"

"You know he loves you, right?"

"Yes." The honest rapidity of her response surprised him, such to the point that she giggled at the look on his face. "What? I didn't know it was a secret. Yes, I know Wesley has feelings for me. And yes, I know that he's done whatever he's done out of what he thinks is in my best interest…but he can't go around choosing my best interest _for_ me."

"Wolfram an' Hart is in nobody's best interest," Spike said gently. "I've played the evil game, luv. Won every time that I was pitchin' for their side. Take it from someone who's done the switch over; evil's evil. You can't get rid of it with a simple facelift."

"But Angel—"

A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Believe it or not, the Great Poof doesn' have all the answers, all right? He's wrong about this. An' Wes's a smart bloke to get away from it while he can. Before it hurts him anymore…or you."

Her eyes softened perceptively. "Spike—"

"Evil doesn' change." The tone of his own voice startled him with conviction, his heart straining to be heard. That was a lesson learned the hard way. A lesson he would never allow himself to forget. Preaching the same to Buffy time and time again. A vampire can change, he had said. The chip was change. Not change enough. Not enough to divide his mind in that fine line between right and wrong. He had shoved her to the ground without knowing any better; his mind not reacting because evil was what it knew. The logical side, the human side, refusing to emerge until the damage was done.

Not in the irreparable way; in the nearly-so. And though he knew that he couldn't blame a quaky system of ethics entirely on his demon side, considering what he had nearly done to the woman he loved more than anything in the world made his insides clench with self-loathing.

And reminded him why he was here in the first place.

"'m not gonna drag you back kickin' an' screamin'," Spike said softly, blinking back to the present. "I jus' had to…one of us has to have a happy endin', sweets. Odds are eventually it _has_ to happen. Things can't go on like this without the sodding Powers givin' us some sorta break. An' since I have a soft spot for people who take me in after I've gone loose upstairs, I'd like it to be you two. Jus'…give it some thought."

He didn't wait for a reply, rather smiled simply and took another bite out of his apple before turning to head back for Wesley.

The man was standing at the corner, looking solemn but not surprised. He nodded when he saw Spike and turned to walk in the opposite direction, offering just that in recognition.

"She's going back to the hotel?"

"'d wager so."

Wesley nodded again, more to himself. "I'm taking you to the address Angel gave me," he said. "After that, I'm going to leave. Go back to the hotel and see if I can talk to Fred. If she doesn't want anything to do with me…can I trust you to watch out for her?"

Spike's eyes twinkled. "What happened to chainin' her in the closet?"

There was no immediate reply.

"Mate?"

Still nothing, but the former vampire decided not to pursue the matter. The haunted look in the other man's eyes was more than enough to attest what he was feeling. That and then some.

When Wesley did start to speak, however, his voice was guarded rather than conversational. "I cannot lose her to Wolfram and Hart," he said. "I've gotten her out in time. Did all the right things. It was killing me there…eventually, it will begin to kill Angel, and Gunn and Lorne. Just gnaw at their insides until there is nothing left." A sigh quaked his shoulders. "I only made it first because I was closer to death than they were when we took the job."

Spike's brows perked and he took a bite out of his browning apple. "Know the feelin'," he agreed.

The other man continued as though the interruption had not occurred. "I've lost one to them," he said. "I will not let them have her, too."

"Lost who?"

Wesley blinked. "Pardon?"

"Who'd you lose?"

His eyes distanced again. "Lilah," he breathed, and for one so in love with another woman, Spike was surprised at the wealth of emotion that flooded his voice with her name. "Wolfram and Hart attorney. We…" He glanced down as though realizing he was speaking aloud. "She and I…in the last months…we grew very close. She was my…"

"Girlfriend?" Spike ventured. Just a guess.

Wrong guess. The look in the former Watcher's eyes grew cold as he directed them around a corner, subconsciously drawing them closer to their objective. "Fuckbuddy."

The word sounded strange coming off his lips.

Spike's gaze darkened. "Really?"

"She was evil. I was lost. It was wrong." Another sigh. The words resounded so familiar—too familiar. The former vampire had to bite back the instinctive flood of rebuttals that attacked his tongue. Especially for what the man revealed next. "I was using her for sex."

"Wanker."

"Yes. Yes, I was." Wesley frowned. "I was wrong. But I…I cared for her. I grew to. And even…" He glanced down. "I think I loved her for a while. Without even realizing it. It just happened. I ended it when I hated myself for using her, but then…I loved her for a while. She wasn't Fred, but she was…and she cared about me in her own way."

Spike had the sudden urge to punch the former Watcher over the side of the nearest railing. The wry irony that he should be telling him this in the first place was not at all lost on him.

_Fuckbuddies._

Yeah. That's what they were, all right.

"An' you lost this one?"

Wesley inhaled sharply. "Cordelia killed her. Tried to make us believe Angelus did. It was while she was possessed."

"Well, that much I wagered."

"I cut her head off," he continued numbly. "She was dead. We thought Angelus had had her. I talked with her…nearly went out of my mind…and then she showed up after Jasmine was gone. An eternal employee of Wolfram and Hart. I tried to save her…tried to burn her contract…I couldn't. I couldn't save Lilah."

There was genuine sorrow in his voice, and that alone persuaded Spike's temper to a simmer. Hearing that anyone had been used did not bode well with the former vampire. Even with everything that he had done to deserve the treatment Buffy gave him that year—even with the forgiveness, the tears, the confessions—there was a part of him that would remain forever scarred because of it. In just minutes, he felt for this dead woman that the other man spoke of. Felt for her; felt as though he knew her. Felt that way because he was her in so many forms.

He didn't think Wesley would appreciate a vote of confidence that Lilah had indeed loved him. But from what he knew of evil and its heroes, that ever-changing gray area left little room for doubt. Evil didn't bend over for anyone. If evil cared at all, it cared with everything it had.

He was evil and he fell in love with a beacon of light. He suspected, in many ways, that Lilah had been the same. Even if Wesley's beacon of light was hazed with shadow.

"Fred will come 'round," he said when he could think of nothing else.

"Yes," Wesley agreed, bringing them to a stop outside a modest looking flat. He glanced to the number that rested above the door, trading glances with the card in his hand. "Let's just hope it is not too late."

Spike breathed a deep breath and nodded. For all the apprehension he had been feeling in regards to this moment, it seemed almost anticlimactic. Years had gone by since he saw Buffy—years in dimensions he could not remember. Years in a body that had worn him top to bottom. It had only been months for her. Just months. And somehow, in the between area of all that, here he was. Standing at the walk outside her flat. A former Watcher was at his side. He had brought him here.

Brought him to Buffy.

_God._

"For what it's worth," Wesley said resignedly, pocketing the information and crossing his arms. "I wish to remain in touch."

"Don' go callin' the pastor yet," Spike murmured. "It may end tonight."

Might. Might. And just like that, his apprehension made a startling comeback. For everything else, the world seemed to dim behind him. Leaving nothing but his body separated from hers by walls that were no longer intangible.

He had lost his vampiric senses, but he did not need tinglies or a heightened sense of smell to know Buffy was in there.

Buffy. His Buffy. This place where fate had brought him.

_I love you._

_No you don'. But thanks for sayin' it._

He hadn't believed it when he said it. Her eyes were never good at lying to him.

Even so, he was so overwhelmed with doubt that it was almost better to not know than consider the wealth of hurt her denial would bring.

The cuts that would bleed again at the whim of rejection.

But he could not remain on the corner forever. He refused to live his life standing just outside hers.

It was time.

**To be concluded in Part Five: _Night Divine_...**


	5. Night Divine

**Night Divine**

It was much easier to get drunk as a human. Spike discovered this after taking the second sip of whatever he had first yanked out of the mini-fridge. And true, while it was against his better judgment, there was a rationale wracking his brain that demanded to remain sober. Thus when he wavered a bit with the unease of a new body, he placed the alcohol aside and collapsed on the mattress.

_The look on her face…_

It didn't matter now, he supposed. He had his answer. He had everything he needed for having come as far as he had. And here he was now—reclined on some foreign bed in a hotel he would never see again. Just miles away from where she was. Just miles.

Not an hour ago, he had been inches.

Spike didn't know what he had been expecting with tonight. There was no limit on endings; a thousand plus scenarios entertained. Conversations he had had with her over and over again in his head, taking his time to perfect exactly what he needed to say. An open field of misgiving. He had already endured the venom of her tongue, the warmth of her embrace, the taste of her mouth, the salt of her tears, the brunt of her punch all within a mind's cavity before the door had opened. Before he was swallowed alive in those eyes of such wonder and uncertainty.

"Spike," she had said, her voice wracked with disbelief. True disbelief. Not simply a figure of speech. She looked as though her sanity ought to be in question for even entertaining the possibility that he could be standing at the threshold. "Oh…"

He had smiled best he could, muscles clamping with the need to shove etiquette aside and take her in his arms. He had not truly believed she existed in the realm that had rebirthed him until that moment. That some part of his sentence, regardless of humanity, coincided with being a world apart from the woman he had earned that humanity for. But no. No. She was there. Buffy was there just as he was promised. There and more beautiful with the grace of human eyes than he ever thought possible.

There was nothing, though. No tears, no shouts, no confessions, no half-sobbed lunge into his arms. Nothing. She had stood aside, numbly, and gestured that he should come in. Wesley had followed at the heel, said something that Spike failed to catch, and they were escorted to the main area where Xander and Willow were decorating a Christmas tree.

From there, everything was downhill. Though watching Xander fall off the chair he was perched upon would forever remain a highlight of the top-ten variety. Willow had stared at him for endless seconds while the boy ranted in the back that the First had found them, silencing immediately when the redhead all but leapt into his arms in a hug that sufficiently astonished the room.

Not that Spike minded.

Not a bit. It was the first hint of contact that came out of genuine affection rather than helping him wobble from a downtown pub or administering medicinal practices for the sake of curing a dimensional fever. She mentioned something about missing him then looked pointedly over his shoulder.

But Buffy wasn't watching. Her skin was pale and her gaze was distant; a dumb, blank look colored her features. She answered when he called to her but refused to look up, closing her eyes once as though willing herself awake from some horrible dream.

Spike had learned a lot of things in the course of one hour. The Bit was off in New York at some fancy boarding school that she had somehow talked Buffy into. He found it more surprising that she wanted to be in boarding school in the first place. Perhaps it was the normalcy, or the teenage need to be away from parental authority figures.

The Scoobies, with all their faults, were about as parental as anyone could ask for. At least when it came to the kiddies.

So Dawn was away—she had even opted to stay in the Big Apple for Christmas. Something about flying overseas for one holiday just didn't rest well with her. She was there, and Giles was piecing the Watcher's Council back together as best he could. That, of course, resigned him to London with a healthy selection of the Slayers that had been called the day the Hellmouth was closed.

The townhouse in Rome, therefore, was only home to Willow, Xander, and Buffy. Willow having separated with Kennedy before she left with Giles for England. A decision that no one felt the need to dispute.

All this revealed. Spike hardly speaking. He had spent his evening watching Buffy. But she didn't watch back.

Now he was at the hotel, debating the virtues of holiday drunkenness.

He wondered if Wesley was doing the same, or if the two unconfirmed lovebirds were having a yuletide shagathon.

Buffy had not said _anything. _Not a thing.

Shock was one thing. Spike understood shock. Even in their world, it wasn't every day that ex-lovers that had, at last count, been buried by a Hellmouth turned up on Christmas Eve on your doorstep. Especially if your doorstep was a good ocean away from it had been the last time there was any significant conversation. Shock he had expected. But this? Buffy's disposition reminded him of her catatonia after Dawn was taken, though her vibes were clear and it could only mean that she did not want him. That his presence tonight was an unwelcome reminder of what had transpired before the summer. The life she had once led. And it was too late now.

That much he understood. Had even expected.

But not a _word._

Spike offered the room a pained smile and rose to his feet. He had not even realized it was Christmas until he saw them decorating the tree. All the other signs—the airport, the lights, the city's luminosity—all had escaped him until tonight. Somehow it was Christmas. His Slayer's first Christmas not being the Slayer in nearly a decade.

And he, the formerly vampiric jilted lover, come back from the dead.

Destroying the happiness he had sacrificed himself to create.

God, he was such a fool.

Christmas drunkenness was not a good idea. He didn't know yet if he was suicidal. After all, it wasn't too long ago that he had been slicing his flesh just to see his blood. He had won the debate on carving his heart out to see if it actually beat, but right now, he didn't know if his inner logic was enough to battle the demons of depression. The realities of a world no longer made for him. These hands that had known chaos and destruction—now human and unable to stand the bath of so much red.

Human hands drenched in blood could not touch her. A demon's could.

Life was irony's bitch.

Spike leg's wobbled under his weight. There was someone pounding on his door. That enough merited a headache. It was likely Wesley, giving up on Fred for the night to retreat to more neutral territory. Then they could toast to the unreasonableness of women and pretend to be better off without them while getting so sloshed that tomorrow's hangover would make the Spanish Inquisition seem like a ride at Epcot.

Well, if it meant he could forget for a few hours.

And sod Fred and her apples; he was going to have a smoke. If the world were going to be so cruel as to give him life without a reason for living, he would do his damndest to make it as short a life as possible.

The knocking grew more persistent.

"Hold your bloody horses," he grumbled. "'m comin'."

His vocal rebuttal only fueled the fire.

"I swear, Wes, this better—" Spike jerked the door open to a proverbial sucker punch that successfully knocked the air out of him. His eyes went wide and his heart pounded furiously—sensationalism beyond control attacking him from all ends without an ounce of shame. The art of being human at its worst.

Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. The night breeze graced her tear-stained cheeks with an accent that no other could provide. Her arms were wound around her waist, a lightweight sweater protecting her from cold that seemed nearly mandatory. Her eyes met his with the rage of war he was far too familiar with, held, and broke again with the tumble of her sobs.

Spike's eyes softened. He wanted to touch her but didn't know if he was welcome. "Buffy—"

And that was it. That was all it took. The simple whisper of her name and she lunged into his arms, hugging him to her as her body wracked with an emotional storm that neither had seen coming. There was nothing else but that. Every fiber in his body rejoiced, his arms coming around hers with eagerness he had never known before. Tighter. She was here. She was here, in his arms, and he would never let her go.

"You're real," she sobbed into his skin, clutching him tighter. "Oh God, you're real."

The words stabbed at his heart and his body sagged with weightlessness.

"Buffy…" He pulled back, a hand going to her face to wipe at her tears. "Sweetheart, I—"

He had no time to think. No time to react. The warmth of her mouth was on his, wrestling needy kisses as her hands pawed at him. Not out of sexual comfort—no, she was reassuring herself. Drawing him into her mouth, ravaging his tongue with hers. Spike clutched at her desperately, brain wracking into overload. He had no thought but to get her inside. Shove the door closed and get her to the place where he lived, where he could finally keep her.

Vampiric senses had nothing on human touch. He tasted her in ways he never thought possible.

"Your warm," she whispered.

"Got me a heartbeat," he murmured back, pressing a kiss to the nape of her throat.

"And you're real." She glanced down, eyes fogging again. "I didn't want to believe it. My dreams…they'd all felt real before."

"Buffy?"

"But then I'd wake up and you'd be gone." Her hands were at his face, gliding over his skin, matching his awed gaze with one of her own. "But you're not. You're here." Her eyes fogged with tears again. "You're really here."

Spike smiled and pressed a kiss to her brow. "'m here, kitten. Never goin' anywhere else."

"God, I thought I'd gone insane."

"You really missed me that much?"

Buffy's head shot up, eyes blazing. "You were gone," she said, "and you weren't coming back. You weren't away in Brazil or getting a soul in Africa. You were really gone."

He breathed a trembling breath and guided her to the bed. The night already seemed surreal; having the Slayer in his arms, having her with him at all, shoved everything beyond the boundary of expectation. He was beginning to doubt his own tangibility alongside hers. Perhaps neither of them were real.

"It didn't hit me until we were in the Midwest," she murmured, head cradled at his shoulder. "I guess I kept assuming you'd pop up. Have I missed you? I was just beginning to not look for you wherever I go…not thinking you'd be there, but…you'd never been gone before, Spike. You were always _somewhere." _

They were silent for seconds; the former vampire having no conception on what was expected of him. He sat in solemnity, rocking her back and forth, drawing her hair over her shoulders. All the while repeating the inward mantra that _this _was real. _Buffy _was real.

"You were dead," she whispered into his skin, clutching him tighter. "You were gone."

"'m here, baby."

"What happened?"

Spike smiled and pulled back, running a hand softly through her hair. "Were you at all there when Wesley explained this?"

"No. I didn't want to look at you."

He winced. "Caught that much."

"Didn't want to chance that you weren't really there. As long as I didn't look and just heard your voice, you were."

Spike froze and just stared at her.

_Never._

Never had he imagined himself here. Buffy in his lap. Speaking these words to him. Even in his wildest. Even when he was a vampire—as soulless as the sun was warm. He never thought she would ever feel anything that could be conveyed into words as powerful as those. With emotion as deep as what she was giving him. Never.

"Oh Buffy…"

Her hands glided up his arms and linked behind his neck, her brow pressed intimately against his. It was strange, but the warmth of her was almost enhanced. As though he could feel her with everything he was—even the parts of him that were not touching her.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," she whispered. "I mean, I've heard of Christmas miracles before, and I was so sure you weren't real. Please…"

Spike's eyes watered. He pressed a kiss to her lips, and again to her forehead before encouraging her cheek to find his shoulder. "You're not dreamin', sweetheart," he murmured, battling the choking emotion that threatened to seize everything he had left. "God, isn't that my line?"

"Not after what I've been through." She sniffled and the sound made his soul weep. He had never known this side of her. Never known her to need anyone, much less him. And while he would not delude himself into believing that it was _him_ she needed, he would similarly do nothing to cast this feeling away. For the first time in his existence, the warmth he gave was being given back. That love he had offered to three was finally accepted by the one his heart had long ago claimed. He felt it even if the words remained absent. Every cell in her body was combust with that sentiment. "If this is a cruel joke, you might as well…the Powers can't give you back to me and take you away again. They just can't."

"'m not goin' anywhere," he promised, brushing his lips against the pulse of her throat, smiling when he felt her skin flush against him. Perhaps that was one thing that would never go away. Her blood still sang to him; just in a manner he had never expected. "Took me too long to get here."

She nodded slowly, her eyes making the journey from pained incredulity to the guarded part of her laced with acknowledgment. She was afraid to let herself admit that he was there, and the knowledge tore at his heart. "What happened?"

Spike pulled back slightly so that he could see her face. "I don' know, really," he answered honestly. "I don' remember anythin' before…you were in the cave, holdin' my hand. Then nothin'. Wes says he found me in some pub."

Her eyes dropped to his arms, a smile quirking her lips. "You're still wearing black tees," she said.

"Became human, luv. Din't lose my fashion sense."

"Didn't know you had any."

Spike smiled. There she was. He rumbled a small, affectionate chuckle and kissed her temple. "That's my girl."

But she wasn't paying attention. In just two seconds, the half-smile on her face had dissolved, replaced with fear and sorrow. Her hands were on his arms, then. Tracing the patterns of scars that were healing but new. The scars he had inflicted upon himself, demanding the world to prove to him that _he _was real.

In that, he could understand her hesitation. After all, if he doubted his own existence, what right did he have to ask her to believe it?

"What did you do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Spike…"

"Made myself bleed," he replied, tilting her head upwards so that her eyes were level with his. "Had to see 'f it was blood. 'F it was real. If _I _was real." He smiled gently at the look on her face. "I don' remember much of that firs' night, but there was blood. Wes says I was cuttin' myself up an' threatenin' to cut up others. Took mentionin' you to get me back to the straight an' narrow."

She blinked. "What?"

"Knew I was s'posed to be a vampire, sweetling. Knew I was s'posed to be dead. My heart was poundin' so loud. So hard. God, it hurt. Nearly broke my chest, or at least felt like it." He frowned, taking her hand and placed it over his breast. "Feel that?" She nodded numbly, caressing him through the thin fabric of his shirt. He bit back a moan at her heavenly touch. Every whispered hint against him was enough to send him spiraling toward a rapturous end. "Still hurts some. Was hurtin' earlier when I saw you. God, I thought you hated me."

That snapped her out of it. Buffy's hazel eyes jumped to his in astonishment. "What?"

"You ran across the world to get away from us, din't you?"

"I couldn't be near the Hellmouth. Anywhere. Too many—"

"You were given a normal world…an' here I was, the wanker come back from the dead to destroy it. I—"

"I love you." Her eyes glistened with liquid crystal, stealing the breath from his lungs and the beat from his heart. And amazingly so, it was she who bent first to tears. With such a revelation, he had always suspected she would cripple him with words, should she ever say them. It was so real now. Sitting in the cold of a foreign hotel room with Buffy in his arms. No ghosties. No goblins. No vampires or First Evils. There was no apocalypse; nothing but two people who were tired of running from death while life chased after. People scarred so many times over that their wounds had become a work of art. And for everything else in the world, there was only this. Only this moment. None before or after. This.

She loved him.

"You love me?"

Her face began to crumple. "You didn't believe me."

Spike's eyes widened and his body hung with instant regret. Oh God. She couldn't think that. Had she spent the last few months thinking that? Thinking that her last declaration wasn't the single most blissful moment in all his years? Not knowing that he had carried it with him to eternity?

_No you don't. But thanks for sayin' it._

God. He was love's fool.

"No, pet." He pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand, smiling into her skin. "I believed you. An' that's why I had to let you go."

Buffy bit her lip. "You did? Really?"

"Yes. 'S what made my mind up for me. What made me know that closin' the Hellmouth was the only way to…" He expelled a deep breath and cast his gaze downward. "You told me before then, you know. You jus'…I don' know 'f you were…'f you knew."

"What?"

He smiled softly, his grasp tightening in need. "Remember the night before? You came down the stairs an' we…"

Watching her blush with implication was something he would never forgo. With everything they had seen, with everything they had done—with a heated history between them burning a matched love with more than either had known—she still found humility enough to blush.

"I love you," he whispered heatedly, claiming her lips in a sudden flash of need. "Never loved anyone like I love you. Don' even know 'f I _knew_ love before there was you. Not the way the romantics write it. You take every bloody sonnet an' make the poet's weep for bein' so unworthy to even touch you." His insides wrenched and he found himself out of breath.

"I want this poet," she murmured into his throat. "Stay. Stay with me, please. Forever."

As if he was capable of anything else. The soft request, so unsure, so hesitant, inspired the tears he had been fighting over that final barrier. And he could do nothing but weep with her, kissing her into oblivion.

This. This was the happy ending he had told Fred to ask the Powers for.

But there was no ending. Only beginnings. Here in this room would birth a beginning. Paved with blood and tears, but held together with love that had emerged from a storm so violent it was amazing anything carved of beauty could survive.

"Forever," he found himself gasping before she commanded his mouth to hers again. Kissing the sun. Burning from the inside. He would sacrifice this for nothing. His hell was paid, and Heaven was finally letting him in. "For _our _forever. Here. Wherever you want. I'm yours."

She smiled at him. That final nod of acceptance. Emerging from the shadowlands to acknowledge what was true. And that was it. The final solidification of anything he could have ever asked for. It was now. He had found it, and he was never letting go.

Tonight. On this Christmas Eve. On this holy night.

His arms wrapped around the woman he loved, she curled into his embrace. Stealing kisses and caresses, holding onto each other in defiance to a world that had moved time to separate them. A world screamed. For whatever else there was, this was something that would never again be robbed from him.

Just this. This penance. Beauty created from chaos and born to hope.

This was it, then.

Tomorrow promised a new and glorious morn.

**fin**

**Conclusive Notes**:

This story was a much condensed version of a more epic idea that first started formulating after the series finale more than a year ago—something I never got around to writing. Many things were left purposefully unresolved, more notably the Fred/Wes storyline. I feel that it is necessary at times to admit that life rarely ever resolves anything, and will leave readers to conclude what they believe happened in a way that is satisfactory to the individual.

In the meantime, happy holidays, and thank you for reading. :)

- Holly


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